


Hot Stuff

by selecasharp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cooking, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:44:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selecasharp/pseuds/selecasharp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have a moment while cooking together at the bunker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up through 10x05. Written for [dolnmoon](http://dolnmoon.livejournal.com)'s birthday, which was, uh, in September. ^^;; Happy very belated birthday, bb! <3 Crossposted to LJ [here](http://teashopmuses.livejournal.com/85666.html).

“Hot stuff, coming through!” Dean bellows, pushing past Sam and nearly knocking him into his freshly chopped pile of potatoes.

Sam turns, catches sight of Dean leaning over to place the steaming pot lid in the sink. His jeans are pulled taut against the backs of his thighs, outlining the bottom curve of his ass, and Sam momentarily forgets what he’s doing. His brother’s barely two feet away, close enough that Sam can feel the heat radiating off of him, and it’s been so damned long.

He doesn’t even think about it. He just reaches out and presses one palm against that curve. “You got that right,” he quips.

Dean jumps, dropping the pot lid with a clatter. “Sam?” he gasps, turning so fast his stockinged feet skid a little on the kitchen tiles. 

“Dean?” Sam asks, alarmed, and reaches for his brother’s arm. But then Dean’s gaze meets his, and they both freeze, staring at each other. Dean’s panting, his lips parted, and Sam can hear his own heart beating, the thud loud in his ears. Dean’s eyes are wide and startled and very, very green. 

Sam’s hand drops back to his side. 

He’d forgotten. He’d actually forgotten how long it’s been since the last time they’d even joked like this with each other, let alone flirted. Not since sometime during the trials, he realizes, over a year ago now. Sometimes it feels like it was just some dream he’d had, the two of them together, frantic kisses and skin against skin. Sometimes it feels like it didn’t happen at all.

But sometimes it feels like they never stopped.

Dean clears his throat. “The, uh, the potatoes,” he manages, his voice scratchier than usual. He jerks his head at the counter behind Sam. “You done?”

Sam blinks, then remembers. That’s right. They’re in the middle of trying to make potato curry, Sam’s idea. Dean had initially made fun of him for even wanting to do it, but had followed him into the kitchen to help without being prompted. A good thing too, as despite everything Sam can still barely follow a recipe. Though, of course, wanting to try this one is less about the curry (though what Dean has boiling in the pot actually smells amazing), and more about just doing something constructive with his brother that doesn’t involve stabbing things. It had even been fun, letting Dean boss him around without having to feel irritated about it and talking together as Dean expertly mixed all the other ingredients while Sam chopped potatoes because “even you can’t fuck that up too badly, Sammy.” 

It had felt like before.

Sam nods, not trusting his voice, and Dean tentatively takes a step toward him. Sam moves back, letting Dean scoop up handfuls of the cut potatoes and drop them into the steaming pot. He can feel Dean’s nearness like a physical touch; his skin feels like it’s crackling, and his breathing’s coming in ragged gasps, though he keeps trying (without much success) to regulate it.

Dean doesn’t seem to notice, or he pretends not to, at least. He just finishes dumping the potatoes in, wipes his hands on his jeans — which just draws Sam’s eyes back down to his ass, damn it — and gives the pot a few stirs. He’s carefully not looking at Sam, Sam realizes. So maybe he has noticed after all. 

“Okay, I think it’s ready,” he says finally, without looking up.

“To eat?” Sam blinks.

Dean actually laughs at that, and turns to face him. “No, idiot,” he says, but he’s smiling, and a part of Sam melts at that. Dean hasn’t smiled at him like that in months. Years, maybe. “It’s ready for the lid again. Potatoes still gotta cook, man.” He shakes his head, as if he can’t believe what a moron Sam’s being. “No wonder you keep fucking recipes up, if you think that’s all it takes.”

Sam makes a face at him. “I didn’t think it was ready, jerk,” he protests, and it all feels so fucking familiar his chest tightens. They’re actually joking around. Bantering. Being brothers. “That’s why I _asked_.”

Dean waves a dismissive hand. “Whatever, man. Just get the lid.” He adds, before Sam’s even made a move toward the sink, “And careful! That thing’s still hot.”

“Yes, oh wise master of the kitchen,” Sam mutters, grabbing for one of the pot holders. “The steam didn’t clue me in at all.” His hand covered, he picks up the lid and then carries it over to the stove, glaring at Dean until he backs up enough for Sam to carefully place the lid back on the pot. 

“Good job, Sam,” Dean smirks. “You managed to put a lid on without either burning yourself or fucking up the food. That’s gotta be worth at least a B.”

Sam throws the pot holder at him.

Dean catches it, laughing again, and Sam’s going to break down and hug him if he doesn’t stop doing that. For a second, he closes his eyes and imagines doing just that, imagines how it would feel to have Dean in his arms again, warm and solid. He imagines kissing Dean, tasting him again, breathing him in, and he wants it. He wants everything they used to have, wants it all back so much he aches.

But he doesn’t move.

He’d been the one to end it, technically, when he’d told Dean that the only way they could stay together was if they stayed professional with each other. That’s over with now, obviously, but neither of them has even acknowledged that they used to have sex, let alone actually talked about it. It’s probably best if they don’t pursue it, at least for awhile, Sam reasons. They still have a lot of shit on their plate to deal with, and they’ve barely made it back to being brothers, let alone gotten to a place where they can add being lovers back into the already complicated mix.

But it’s Dean, and Sam just got him back, and he misses him.

Maybe they can talk about it, Sam thinks. They’re doing well right now, even having a good time, and (as Dean pointed out) they have a while before the potatoes finish. Maybe now is the time to finally have this discussion. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes again. “Dean?” he starts. 

Then the pot holder hits him in the face.

“Ha! Two points!” Dean crows, and Sam grapples for it, snatching it just before it slides off his face and hits the floor. 

“Oh, it is on,” he growls.

He lunges for Dean, but his brother’s already made it to the other side of the island. Sam aims and throws, but Dean spins to one side and the pot holder sails past his shoulder. “Come on, Sammy, you can do better than that!” he taunts. “C-minus at best, dude.”

Sam grabs another one from the drawer, then reaches across the island and pushes it right into Dean’s nose. “A-plus, jackass,” he smirks.

“No fair,” Dean protests. “You and your monkey arms cheated.” 

He grabs the pot holder out of Sam’s hand and tries to return the favor, but Sam leans back a little and watches, amused, as Dean’s hand flails around a good eight inches away from his face. Dean swears and darts around the metal island, sliding a little on the turn, and comes at him again. Sam debates running, but there’s a pot boiling just a few feet away, and given his history in kitchens, he’s fairly sure its contents will end up all over him if he tries. So he just grabs Dean’s wrists instead, holding his brother’s outstretched hands in place. Dean grunts and shoves at him, but Sam holds fast, and the pot holder just waves in the air a few inches from his nose.

“Got you,” Sam grins.

He expects Dean to swear at him again and try to yank himself free, but he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t move at all, in fact; he just stares up at Sam, his cheeks flushed, his lips slightly parted. Sam’s breath catches in his throat, and suddenly he’s aware that he’s touching Dean again, that they’re standing only inches apart, and that his hands are still gripped tight around his brother’s wrists. 

It brings back memories, of him holding Dean like this, pinned to a mattress; of the times Dean’s grabbed his wrists and held him down; of the two of them, naked and entwined, their hands all over each other. He remembers it all, and he can tell, just from the way Dean’s biting his lip, that Dean’s remembering it too.

The pot holder slips from Dean’s hand, fluttering to the floor, but neither of them makes a move to grab it. Dean swallows, his eyes never moving from Sam’s face. “I,” he rasps, his voice husky. “Sam—”

He’s so close. 

Sam isn’t really aware of deciding to do it, but the next thing he knows, his hands are cupping Dean’s face and his lips are on his. For a second Dean doesn’t react, and Sam starts to pull away, already blushing hot with a confused combination of embarrassment and desire. Then Dean’s arms are around his neck, and he’s pulling Sam in close, fastening their mouths together. Sam closes his eyes, letting Dean flood all his senses, the familiar touch and taste and scent of him blotting out everything else. Dean smells like he always does, of soap and motor oil and sweat, and he tastes a little like madras curry, but mostly like Dean.

God, Sam’s missed this.

They break apart a few moments later, both panting and hard. “Christ,” Dean gasps, letting go of Sam to rake his hands through his short hair. “Sammy, I — are you sure?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sam admits. Dean’s lips are reddened, slightly swollen, and Sam already wants to kiss him again. To hell with waiting; he’s sick of the distance between them, sick of thinking and debating and holding back. He reaches out again, brushes Dean’s cheek. “I think so.”

Biting his lip, Dean touches Sam’s belt. “Can I…” he trails off. His hands are trembling, the tips of his fingers barely touching him, like he’s sure Sam will say no any second.

“Yes,” Sam whispers.

Dean shudders in a breath, then slowly unbuckles it. Sam watches his brother’s hands, still flushed from the heat of the stove, as they pull the buckle free, as they unfasten the button and then slowly pull down the zipper of his jeans. Dean’s hands are shaking slightly as they push Sam’s jeans and boxers down, just over his hips and down around his thighs, until his erection springs free. 

“Damn, Sammy,” Dean breathes, wrapping one callused palm around it. Sam jumps at the touch, breathing hard, his head spinning. Dean looks up at him for a moment, catching his gaze, and there’s a question in Dean’s green eyes now. Sam nods, unable to speak, and Dean nods back.

Then he drops to his knees.

As Sam watches, his heart pounding, Dean strokes his hand down the length of Sam’s cock, his thumb rubbing over the head and across the slit. “Christ,” Sam gasps. He gropes for the counter behind him, grabbing onto the edge with both hands. He’s not sure he’ll be able to stay on his feet otherwise. Dean glances up at him, half-smiling, and does it again, adding a little twist to his wrist at the end, just how Sam likes it. Then he closes his hand around the base of the shaft and leans in. 

The touch of Dean’s lips on his cock nearly undoes him. Sam throws back his head and closes his eyes, then opens them again and looks down. He doesn’t want to miss a second of this. 

Dean’s slow at first, wrapping his lips just around the head and swirling his tongue over every part of it, like he’s reacquainting himself. Sam tightens his grip on the counter, watching as Dean moves his mouth down, sucking more of Sam’s cock in until his cheeks are hollowed. His hands are bracketing Sam’s hips, his fingers gripping and holding him tight. His tongue slides up the skin on the underside of Sam’s cock, licking up and over the ridge under the head, and it’s almost too much, the moist heat of his mouth, the drag of his tongue, the pain-pleasure of his fingers digging into the bones of his hips.

Sam’s own thighs are quivering from the strain of trying not to thrust, the counter biting into his palms, but he relishes it. Dean obviously remembers exactly what Sam likes, because every move he makes just brings Sam closer to the precipice. He’s sucking hard now, his eyes closed, his lips sealed tight around Sam’s cock. His tongue is everywhere, it feels; running up the shaft, twirling over the head, licking across the slit. 

Sam wants to touch him too, wants to put his hands over Dean’s, scratch his nails over Dean’s scalp, something. But he can’t let go of the counter, not when Dean starts stroking his thumbs down the crease of skin at the tops of Sam’s thighs, not when Dean takes a deep breath and then sucks him down until he’s almost entirely inside Dean’s mouth. It’s that that finally does it, the look of concentration on Dean’s face and the sight of his own cock deep between his brother’s lips. With a whispered curse, Sam comes, his cock pulsing and spilling in Dean’s mouth. Dean’s grip on him tightens even more, and he can see Dean’s throat working as he swallows. He watches, eyes glassy, as Dean finally pulls off of him, leaving his cock shiny with saliva, and gets to his feet, wiping at his mouth.

“God, Dean,” he whimpers, finally losing the battle to stay on his feet. Dean catches him as he slumps down, holding him upright as Sam collapses onto his shoulder, breathing hard. 

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean murmurs in his ear. “It hasn’t been that long since you got a BJ, has it?”

“You should know,” Sam mumbles back, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist and closing his eyes. He feels content, boneless and happy, warm in Dean’s arms. He’s kind of amazed at that, actually. He hasn’t felt this good since before he found out just what Dean had done to make sure he survived the trials. A part of him stiffens at the memory, remembering just why he and Dean haven’t been this close for so long, but he can’t bring himself to care too much. Not right now, with the rush of orgasm still flooding his veins and Dean’s warmth against him.

And the scent of curry on the air.

“Shit, the food!” he yelps, jerking upright.

“Sam,” Dean says, sounding amused. “It’s been like five minutes. The food is fine.”

Sam blinks, then relaxes back into his arms. “Really? It felt longer than that.”

“Another sign you need to get laid more,” Dean chuckles, nuzzling his face against Sam’s neck. “Don’t worry, I set a timer. We’ve got about fifteen minutes before it’s done.”

“Fifteen minutes, huh?” Sam says, lifting his head again. He snakes one hand down between then, unbuttoning Dean’s jeans in one movement and then sliding his hand into his boxers. Dean jumps when his hand closes around Dean’s erection. It’s heavy in his hand, hot and familiar, and Sam plays his fingers over the smooth skin.

“Shit,” Dean swears, his fingers digging bruises into Sam’s shoulders. “Sammy—”

Sam drags his hand up the length of Dean’s cock, stroking him from base to tip, squeezing a little at the end, the way he remembers drives Dean crazy. He’s right; when he does that, Dean throws his head back, panting and swearing, his whole body shaking. He looks beautiful, Sam thinks, watching him. Dean’s face is glowing, his eyes bright, and what Sam can see of his dick is hard and flushed in Sam’s hand.

He moves his hand again, but it’s too difficult to maneuver properly with Dean’s jeans and boxers still mostly up, so he uses his other hand to yank them down until they’re tangled around Dean’s thighs. “C’mere,” he rasps, and he pulls Dean in close, one hand curving around the swell of Dean’s bare ass. The other he uses to push and hold both their cocks together.

“Oh christ,” Dean says thickly, his hands trembling on Sam’s shoulders. Sam’s cock, which had been mostly soft, starts to harden again, and he wraps one palm tight around both him and Dean, pressing them in close. “Christ,” Dean says again, and then he’s kissing Sam, his mouth wet and bruising, his fingers pressing patterns into Sam’s back. Sam gasps and kisses back, leaning back against the counter and tangling their tongues together. 

They rock together like this, mouths fused and cocks sliding, Sam’s hand in a loose grip around them. He keeps the other hand gripped firmly on Dean’s ass, holding him in place and keeping him from slipping on the tiles. The counter edge hurts where it’s wedged against his back, but Sam doesn’t care; he doesn’t care about anything except Dean and the feel of him, hot and hard and so damn familiar. 

“Sammy,” Dean gasps, breaking the kiss, and then he’s coming, his head thrown back and his back arched, and it’s so fucking beautiful that Sam’s whole body reacts, going tight and hot and loose all at once. Dean’s cock slips against his, still pearly white at the tip, and Sam squeezes them both tight. 

Orgasm ripples through him, jerking his cock against Dean’s and tingling through his limbs. Everything else vanishes: the sound of the pot boiling, the smell of curry, even the pain of the counter. There’s nothing but Dean, and the two of them, again. Together.

This time, when he slumps forward, spent, Dean goes down with him, and they end up half-sitting on the floor, leaning against each other and laughing weakly. “Damn, this is uncomfortable,” Dean gripes, but he’s smiling, and Sam has to kiss that smile. 

His legs, at least, are still (mostly) clothed, so he kneels and cups Dean’s face in his hands and kisses him deep. Dean melts against him, his hands skimming up Sam’s back, his mouth open and tender. Dean’s right; it’s definitely uncomfortable, kneeling on the hard tile with his jeans halfway down his thighs and his dick hanging out, but Sam could stay like this forever, his body thrumming and his mouth on Dean’s.

The timer goes off.

“Fuck,” Dean groans against Sam’s lips. He starts to pull away.

“Don’t go,” Sam murmurs, pulling him back down into the kiss. For a moment, Dean seems to have given in; he plasters himself back against Sam, his tongue swiping over Sam’s bottom lip. Then he pushes Sam away.

“This is why you screw cooking up,” Dean says, grabbing the edge of the counter and hauling himself back to his feet. “You’re always getting distracted and letting shit burn, or leaving something out, or—”

“Or putting the wrong thing in?” Sam asks.

Dean snorts and offers him a hand up. Sam takes it, letting Dean and the counter pull him back upright. As soon as they’re both standing, Dean makes a face and stumbles over to the sink, wetting down a cloth and giving himself a quick cleanup before tossing it to Sam. As Sam wipes himself down, he watches Dean go over to the boiling pot and, after grabbing a pot holder, pick up the lid. The smell of curry doubles in intensity, and Dean grabs for the spoon he’d been using earlier and gives the pot a few stirs. Then he turns the burner off and puts the lid back on.

“It’s gotta cool down a little before we can eat it,” he says, turning back to Sam. He holds out the spoon. “But if you want to taste it…”

Sam shuffles forward and takes the spoon, blowing on it before he licks the back of it. “Damn,” he says, surprised. The curry tastes even better than it smells, hot and spicy with just a slight tang of sweet coconut. His mouth tingling, he hands the spoon back. “Here, you taste it.”

Dean shrugs and puts the whole thing in his mouth. His eyes widen. “Wow,” he coughs, tossing it down on the counter. “It’s friggin’ hot.”

“But good,” Sam says, licking his lips.

“Oh yeah,” Dean grins. “Should be awesome, man. Even if you did help make it.” 

He looks so good, standing there with his shirt rumpled and his jeans unbuttoned, giving Sam the smile he’d thought he’d never see again, that Sam doesn’t bother rising to the bait. He hasn’t forgotten what Dean did, or why it’s been over a year since the last time. But Sam’s fucked up too, and in the end, he’s just glad that Dean’s back with him again. It’s always been best when the two of them try to work together. Even if it’s over something as simple as making curry.

“Sam?” Dean says then, and he sounds almost worried. His smile falters, and Sam knows then. He might not fully trust Dean again, not yet. But he’s forgiven him. 

“Dean,” he whispers back, and then they’re kissing again, right there by the stove. Dean’s hands are tangled his hair, sending little shocks of pleasure through him with every tug, and Sam slides his hands down Dean’s body, tracing the dip and curve of his spine. Dean tastes spicy, and his mouth is burning a little, and it’s the best thing Sam’s tasted in a long, long time.

He spreads his hands over Dean’s ass, gripping the denim-covered flesh tight. He wants Dean’s jeans gone, off entirely this time, he thinks, pressing forward, pushing their bodies together. His hands collide with the stove. 

The still-hot stove.

He jerks out of his Dean-induced haze, hissing with surprise. Dean blinks at him, confused, but then understanding dawns. “Let me see,” he orders, pushing Sam back a few steps and then grabbing for his hands.

“I don’t think they’re burned,” Sam says, letting Dean examine the skin. “It just surprised me.”

“Just a little red,” Dean agrees, and to Sam’s surprise, he kisses them, one after the other. “Good thing we’d turned the burner off.”

Taking Sam’s hand, Dean leads him away from the stove. Sam follows, watching the way his loose jeans bunch and smooth over the curve of his ass. He wants to touch that again, feel the smooth skin against his palms. 

He wants Dean again.

Once they’re on the other side of island, Dean stops and turns to face him. “It’ll be safer if we wait over here,” he says, threading his arms around Sam’s shoulders and pulling him close again. His lips graze Sam’s neck, and Sam shivers. The curry can wait, he decides. 

“So,” he says, putting his hands back on that tantalizing curve. “How long do we have before we can eat?”

Dean grins up at him. “As long as you want.”


End file.
